


As Lucifer Fell

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Arthur Saves the Day, Depression, Douglas delights in being needed, Gen, Gen Fic, It's his love language, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas is more complex than everyone except Arthur thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Lucifer Fell

If you ask anyone at MJN Air, it begins with the temporary closure of Fitton Airfield for the semi-centurial scraping of rubber off the runway. Neither the company nor any of their personal finances can handle a six-month hiatus, so they’re forced to relocate to a small airport just outside of Bristol. Douglas and Martin can’t afford to rent a room for so long a period, so they chip in together, sharing a cozy place comprised entirely of two bedrooms (really a bedroom and a sitting room converted into a bedroom), a kitchen, and a loo. More nights than not, one of them cooks, but on the Saturdays they’re in town they make it a point to explore the city a bit.

Thus, a chilly spring evening finds them sitting in a noisy pub, forced to write on paper serviettes to complete the traditional ranking of the food, using a semi-structured scale that ranges from “Arthur on a bad day” to “would be better with a bit of carp.” As they’re debating, Douglas’s phone rings, something shrieky and opera-sounding to Martin’s ears.

“What is that?”

Douglas smirks a bit. “Queen of the Night from The Magic Flute. Otherwise known as Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.”

Martin grins. “It’s perfect.”

Douglas attempts to answer, but can’t seem to hear anything above the din of the crowd. “Hold on, Carolyn,” he says. “I’m going outside.”

Martin sits at the table, doodling idly and watching a couple of the darts players in the corner. _They clearly don’t understand the principles of aerodynamic flight_ he thinks and realizes he’s drawn some sort of propeller-driven fighter plane on the napkin. By the time he’s decided on the name to go on the nose art, he realizes that Douglas has been gone for an awfully long time. As if summoned, his own phone goes off. He doesn’t have the kind that lets you do different rings for each person, but he has a sixth sense it’s Carolyn.

“Hullo?” He draws idle shapes with the condensation on the table.

“Martin, it’s me.” Carolyn’s “I’m very annoyed and you’re going to pay” voice comes through the speaker. “Tell that conniving man that pretending to ignore me is not going to work.”

Martin’s eyebrows scrunch together. “He’s not here. He left to go talk to you and hasn’t come back yet.” He’s already standing up, throwing a twenty pound note to cover the meal on the table. As he steps out onto the sidewalk and rounds the side of the pub, he’s struck by the sight of Douglas, pinned to the ground by three burly men while another takes the opportunity to smash his boots into Douglas’s chest. What they’re shouting at Douglas doesn’t make much sense—something about being a posh toff looking for a bit of rough, which fits Douglas not at all. If anything, Douglas, while technically in a white-collar profession, is “one of the blokes.” He may like opera and fine cheese, but he’s more likely to be found down in the pub watching an Arsenal match than in Albert Hall.

Martin must make some noise that gives him away, as the four attackers look at him at once. Before he can think, they’re on him. Martin has just enough time to gasp “Rose and Crown” into the phone before he loses his grip on it. Two of the brutes force his arms behind his back while the other grabs his hair mercilessly. 

“Give us everything you’ve got and this will go easy for you.”

Martin doesn’t even think of protesting, looking at Douglas lying motionless on the ground. “My wallet’s in my back right pocket,” he says. “There’s only a tenner in it. Besides my phone, that and my watch are all I have in the world.”

The one holding his hair leans closer, beer-foul breath assaulting Martin’s nostrils. “Of course it is. Your _sugar daddy_ over here has all the money, doesn’t he? How does it feel to be his bitch?”

Martin doesn’t know where they get this idea from, but it’s obvious they’re not exactly sober, nor in the best frames of mind. He doesn’t make a comment, every instinct in him shouting “Freeze!” It’s like being a child again, stuck in an endless loop of stuttering and inaction. The thugs slap him across the face a couple of times, seeming to take pleasure in the red flush it brings to his cheeks before they let him go, walking out of the alley as if nothing’s happened.

Martin runs to Douglas’s side. He’s not moved as far as Martin can see, although he’s groaned a couple of times as his injuries protest. Martin places a cautious hand on his back.

“Douglas?”

Douglas moans a bit, but moves to try to push himself over. Martin helps him sit up against the brick wall of the pub. He tries to assess the damage, but it’s made difficult with the lack of lighting. Eventually, he has the presence of mind to go into the pub to call emergency services, even though it nearly kills him to leave Douglas alone in the alley. He makes the call as quickly as he can and rushes back. Douglas is slumped over sideways, breathing shallowly and holding his shoulder awkwardly.

Martin spends the time waiting for the ambulance and the police to arrive trying to make Douglas comfortable without moving him too much. Douglas is silent, but the way he keeps his eyes shut and the furrow between his brows speak to his pain more than he’d usually let them were he in complete control of himself. The paramedics and police arrive, nearly simultaneously, and Martin gives a preliminary statement as quickly as he can, trying to finish before they drive off with Douglas. The police officer takes pity on him, assuring him that she’ll follow them to the hospital and they can finish there. The paramedics offer Martin the chance to ride in the ambulance with them, which he jumps at. Something in his chest tugs at the thought of Douglas being alone any more than is necessary.

He doesn’t get to see much of Douglas at the hospital at first. They whisk him away into an examination cubicle and hand Martin a stack of forms to fill out. He really, really wants to stop talking to the police officer, though, so he handles the statement part first. She’s kind and doesn’t assume that the two of them are together, which puts his mind at ease a bit about the kinds of signals he’s been throwing off. It’s not that he’s against the idea of being with Douglas, _per se_ , but that he hasn’t even figured out how to express that to himself, let alone the man with the most intimidating presence Martin’s ever encountered.

Martin’s left alone in the waiting room for quite a while. He takes the opportunity to fill out as much of the paperwork as possible. He doesn’t know any of Douglas’s ex-wives’ numbers or addresses, so he puts Carolyn’s instead. When the nurse looks askance at the Fitton address, Martin explains about the airfield closure and how they’re there only temporarily. She seems more concerned with getting the scrape on his cheek looked at than the paperwork, though, which Martin finds a bit absurd. Douglas is the one with the boot marks on his chest, with the dribble of blood coming from his hairline and a shoulder he can barely move. His own scuffs are nothing in comparison. Martin’s outvoted by the medical professionals and spends thirty minutes getting his injuries taken care of.

It doesn’t occur to him to call Carolyn until hours later. He’s mentally still in a bit of shock, and the realization that she was still on the phone with him at the beginning of the mess and that he never got a chance to tell her what was happening dawns on him slowly. He borrows the phone from the front desk to call Carolyn, who answers with an impressive mix of fury and worry.

“Martin Crieff, you idiot!” she shouts. “Where the hell have you been?”

Martin swallows loudly. “I’m sorry, Carolyn. We’re here at hospital. There was an...incident. Douglas was mugged outside the pub.”

“What? Is that why you dropped the call so suddenly?”

“I walked in on them,” Martin says. “They took my phone. They took everything. Carolyn, he’s really, really hurt.”

Carolyn takes a deep breath. “Which hospital are you at?”

Martin doesn’t know, and turns to the nurse for information. “St. Michael’s.”

A slight pause as Carolyn looks it up on her SatNav. “We’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

A bit of the tension leaves Martin’s shoulders. “I’m in A&E. I’ll wait for you.” He hands the phone back to the nurse and returns to the plastic chair in the waiting room. It feels like an eternity before Carolyn arrives, Arthur in tow. 

“Oh, Martin,” she says, surprisingly tenderly, gently turning his head to look at the scrape. It wasn’t deep enough for butterfly bandages, but it’s shiny with antiseptic. Martin thinks it must look more painful than it actually is, as he’s barely felt it all night. Then again, he’s barely felt anything at all, so maybe it’s supposed to hurt. He’s not quite sure.

Arthur sits next to him. “Have you heard anything about Douglas, Skip?”

“Just that they don’t think there’s internal damage.” Martin huffs disbelievingly. “With as hard as they were kicking him, I’m surprised. Must be that--” he swallows hard, “famous Richardson luck of his.” The stress of the evening is suddenly more than he can take. He leans forward with his face in his hands and his elbows on his knees. He feels Carolyn rub his back in large circles as he shudders in shock. Arthur, on his other side, is a warm presence. A blessedly silent presence.

Eventually, the shaking ceases and Martin is left a worn-out, drooping mess. Carolyn leaves at one point to fetch them all coffee, but other than that they’re like insects frozen in amber, waiting in anticipation. When the doctor arrives with the news that Douglas’s injuries, while painful, are mostly non-serious, he’s treated to a matching set of grins from Martin and Arthur and a satisfied “hmph” from Carolyn.

They’re finally allowed to see Douglas hours later, when he’s already been moved upstairs, given his pain medication for the night, and is soundly asleep. They’re not allowed to stay for long; visiting hours here are not as lax as the A&E. Carolyn and Arthur say their goodbyes, but Martin lingers a bit, promising Douglas they’ll come back for him in the morning. He feels a bit foolish since Douglas is clearly asleep, but he doesn’t want to take the chance that Douglas will think he’s alone.

The next morning, the three of them arrive as early as visiting hours permit. Douglas is already awake, if a bit groggy. From their time sharing rooms, Martin knows he’s not by nature a morning person, let alone when he’s spent the night drugged to the gills. Even Douglas’s fringe looks a bit droopy and half-asleep. The overall effect is of a rather rumpled bear, which makes Martin smile fondly before he catches himself. Douglas certainly won’t take kindly to being patronized.

With great effort, they manage to get Douglas up and mobile once he’s discharged. He’s clearly still sore from the night before, and he moves with a cautiousness that doesn’t suit him. Once they reach the hotel, Carolyn and Arthur join them for a quick early lunch before they depart, leaving Martin to wrangle Douglas into bed. It’s a task he grows familiar with during the two-month-long recovery period.

********************

When Douglas returns to work, it’s to a sigh of relief all around. Without their second pilot, MJN’s been relegated to short flights, and Carolyn’s been forced to push off a couple of well-paying clients who wanted longer trips.

Over the course of the day’s flight, however, it becomes apparent there’s something not quite right with Douglas. He still pays word games with Martin and chats with Arthur, but there’s a niggle of concern at the back of Carolyn’s mind. She couldn’t explain it if she were asked, but it’s there all the same. _He’ll bounce back soon enough,_ she thinks, and leaves her doubts unvoiced.

It’s nearly a week later before Douglas approaches her with what’s on his mind. He explains carefully, without actually making eye contact during the story, glossing over his own attack and focusing on Martin’s insistence that he didn’t have anything else to his name.

“You have to pay him _something_ ,” he says, angrily. “He can’t survive living on his pride and Captain’s bars much longer.”

Carolyn’s not heard a much better explanation of Martin’s contentment with his lot in life than that, but it doesn’t stop her feeling the tiniest bit of guilt. “There’s nothing I can do,” she tells him. “There is literally no money in the budget to pay him. We’re still a loss-making company, just losing money less rapidly than before.”

“Then take it out of my pay.” Douglas looks at her seriously. “I’ve done the numbers. There’s enough to pay both of us minimum wage, rather than just me nearly twice that.”

Carolyn is a bit dumbfounded, but if he’s willing.... “Alright,” she agrees. “Starting the next billing cycle. If you’re sure?”

Douglas nods sharply. “I’m sure.” 

“Consider it done, then.” She makes a note in her planner, marking Douglas’s satisfied look as well. “You look quite pleased with yourself.”

“I am. You should have heard him, Carolyn. ‘All I have in the world,’ he said. And he meant it, too.” Douglas looks a bit upset, but recovers quickly.

Carolyn doesn’t say anything, but her silence asks enough. Douglas glares at her, half-heartedly. “I’m fine! I really wish people would stop asking me. I’m a bit bruised and have certainly moved more easily, but fine nonetheless.”

“A couple of cracked ribs, a badly strained shoulder, and a mild concussion count as something more than ‘a bit bruised,’ but if that’s the way you want to play it, Mr. I-can-get-beaten-up-by-thugs-and-still-fly-in-the-morning, why don’t you stop dawdling here and go fly my plane?”

Douglas departs as she asks, throwing a jaunty salute on the way.  
****************

As the months go by, Douglas adjusts to his new budget. It’s a bit more difficult than before, but his income roughly matches his outflow, so he’s not worried. Until Miriam calls and tells him Emily’s been accepted to the maths and sciences programme she’s been dying to attend for as long as she could say the name. Douglas’s share is another £300 a month, which strains his budget to the breaking point. There’s no way he can turn down Emily’s chance at a good school, nor does he feel like sitting in front of social services (to say nothing of Miriam) and admitting he can’t afford the extra alimony. He’ll just have to make do. If he stops getting takeaways and going to the airfield pub, he should have just enough to scrape by. Of course, if he were to move to a place with lower rent... _No,_ he thinks. _No reason to make that drastic a change yet._ It’s the “yet” that makes him lose sleep for weeks after.

It becomes quickly apparent that things are not as fine as they first appear. Douglas’s famed luck seems to run out all at once. The Lexus fails its MOT, his fridge fails and spoils all the food inside while he’s away, and he loses an actual bet for 200 quid with Martin. All told, he’s not surprised when “yet” becomes “today.”

Douglas makes a concerted effort to maintain the appearance of calm collectedness in front of the crew at the airfield. Or tries to, anyway. He sometimes finds himself drifting off into thought, missing his turn at word games, or becoming short-tempered. Flying doesn’t hold the same joy for him it once did; he relies on muscle memory and Martin to get them through the flights safely. 

The only bright spot is when someone asks him for help, when he’s able to solve a problem. The feeling of helpfulness and power he gets from being able to work out a solution to something that’s stumped someone else buoys him up temporarily, letting him rise for a moment at a time above the churning of his silent fears and doubta. He stops going out with the crew on layovers, always has an excuse for offers of hospitality, and is generally unseen about Fitton when he’s not flying.

Without a word to anyone at MJN, he moves out of the flat he’s lived in for several years and into a  
smaller place on the other side of the town. The rent is cheaper, even if the company leaves a bit to be desired. He keeps the Lexus only as long as it takes to become apparent that a swish car in that part of town is a sitting target. He dislikes having to part with it, but hates the repair bills more.

From his place in the thick of things, Douglas doesn’t realize it, but his colleagues have been discussing him behind his back.

“You need to fix Douglas,” Martin tells Carolyn after a particularly tense and quiet flight. 

Carolyn gives him her “you did not just say that” look. “He’s not a windup toy, Martin. I can’t just take a screwdriver to him and he’ll be all better.”

Martin huffs in exasperation. “But there’s something clearly wrong! He barely acknowledges me on the flight deck except when he has to, has ignored Arthur’s last two attempts to get advice, and didn’t even respond when the fit customs agent in Bombay flirted with him!”

“I agree,” Carolyn says. “Those are all signs of a Douglas in distress, and there are no prizes for guessing what event in his life would be guaranteed to trigger such distress. But If he won’t talk about it, the only thing I can do is give him some time to work through it. Maybe a bit of a rest would do him some good.”

Arthur’s head pops up from where he’s been listening on the sofa. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mum,” he says. “Douglas won’t like being sent off.”

“I’m not sending him off! I’m just giving him time to work out whatever problems he’s lied, cheated, or stolen his way into.”

Arthur doesn’t argue, but the look on his face makes it plain he doesn’t agree. Carolyn ignores him and presses on. “I’ll tell him after this next flight.”

The “telling Douglas” portion of the plan does not go as smoothly as Carolyn had hoped. Douglas’s face turns stony and he responds in the clipped, precise tones that generally signal great anger or embarrassment. Carolyn thinks it falls firmly on the side of the latter, and Martin agrees. Arthur, surprisingly, keeps his opinions to himself. Douglas slamming the door of the Portakabin behind him is the last they see of him for six weeks.  
***********************  
When he gets home, Douglas is floored. He knows that he hasn’t been perhaps the nicest of companions recently, but he thought he hadn’t outlived his utility yet. To be dismissed like this by Carolyn, without even a word of discussion, stings more than a bit. He’s not quite sure what to do with himself, now. Holding a pilot’s odd schedule for so long means he’s not cultivated any hobbies that require significant investment, and he quickly comes to realize what few of his friends remain are tied in some way to MJN. Feeling positive that news of his disgrace has spread like wildfire throughout the airfield, Douglas shuns contact with them completely.

He manages the first week, if somewhat gracelessly, reading books and articles he’s been meaning to catch up on, strolling through the park, and generally catching up on lost opportunities for sleep. The second week slips straight from dull into excruciatingly boring. Douglas finds his sleep schedule swapped, spending the evenings pondering his fortune (or sudden lack thereof) and his days sleeping. The inactivity and constant rehashing of what he’s lost in his life wear his resistance down until he finds himself at a pub, just for the sake of something to _do_.

But no one wants to hear stale stories from a washed-out old pilot. He sits at the bar with the seemingly-endless span of time before he’s allowed to return to flight stretching before him. He’s never been so useless in his life. In university, there had been study groups to anchor, interesting women to date, flight tests to pass. After, a steady stream of flights abroad and Mrs. Richardsons at home had kept his hands from being idle, until he’d ended up at MJN with three divorces under his belt and and ego hinged entirely on making himself useful to a company on life support every day. To lose that now leaves him tetherless, and acting as his own rudder has always steered him wrong. Douglas is like a magician: without a crowd to perform for, everyone who’s there knows he’s a fraud.

That thought is enough to lead him down a dark spiral of despair and worthlessness, and it’s not long before the continual beckoning of alcohol, which he usually overwhelms with cries from other pursuits, becomes the only sound in his head. He can do no other than obey its siren call.

He quickly falls into old habits. The first night he drinks, he stops before he blacks out, but only because he didn’t purchase enough and he can’t quite manage the manual dexterity required to open his door. He doesn’t make that mistake again, On the first of the month, he pays his rent and then pulls out the vast majority of the rest of his money, purchasing every whiskey and vodka bottle he can get his hands on in a 5-mile radius. Every glass he has is an attempt to drown out the voices in his head telling him he’s not good enough, useless, friendless, a failure.

It works. The more he drinks, the more the voices fall silent, leaving one clear thought in his head: done. It’s all done. Without a family, a job, or anything else to occupy his time, he’s worthless. All he’s waiting for now is for Carolyn to realize that if she’s done without him for this long, she doesn’t need to keep him around and formally fire him. MJN doesn’t need him holding them back, and not having to pay his half of the pilots’ salary might finally put them in the black. _No use in prolonging the inevitable,_ he thinks. Once MJN’s actually solvent, Martin can finally get paid as he ought, Arthur’s future will be secure, and Carolyn will have one final blow in her perpetual war with Gordon. He convinces himself he’s doing them a favour. Why hold them back when he can help them fly?

He doesn’t realize how much time has passed in the drunken stupor that’s his life. Long enough to have received another paycheck from MJN. That plus the remaining savings he has is enough to pay his rent for another month and to purchase enough alcohol to put down an elephant, let alone a gray old man with a liver that’s already dodgy on a good day. He circles the off-licenses one last time, echoes of innumerable barkeeps calling “name your poison” across the bar top ringing in his head. The justice of it all is almost enough to make him laugh. Alcohol ruined the best parts of his life, and now it will save them. As a final tribute to the life he’s leaving behind, he chooses a bottle of 25-year-old Talisker--the pièce de résistance of his final Act.

As he walks home, he feels suddenly lighter. This is what he’s always been best at--choosing a course of action and making it work. It’s freeing, having the path laid out before him, straight and true. It’s the most useful thing he’s done in weeks, and the portion of his heart that he can hear feels lighter for it. All that’s left now is to execution, and he’s always been best at that.  
***********************  
At the end of what they’ve taken to calling “Douglas’s sabbatical,” the remainder of MJN is more than ready for his return. Carolyn can only charge so much for the shorter flights, and Herc has his own schedule to maintain, leaving Martin as the only pilot. While flying will never fail to make him happy, the near-daily out-and-backs are taking their toll, leaving him exhausted and wrung out.

The first flight scheduled for Douglas’s return is a three-night cargo run to Osaka. Carolyn plans on taking him out for “welcome back” sushi once they land. The show time is 8 am, but of course Douglas is late. Martin doesn’t start to worry until 10, and Carolyn until noon. When 1:30 comes and passes, the worry turns into panic. Douglas may be lax about some things, but he’s strictly scrupulous when it matters and has never missed a take-off time before. Carolyn sends Martin out to do the pre-flight checks while she attempts to track down her errant co-pilot.

She drives to Douglas’s house, or what she later knows _used_ to be Douglas’s house. There’s new family there now. If the strange cars in the drive aren’t enough of a clue, the children’s toys strewn about the front garden are. She immediately calls Martin.

“We’ve got a problem,” she says. “Douglas doesn’t live at his house anymore.”

Martin makes a non-committal noise over the phone. “No. He’s at that semi-detached place now.”

“That’s what I mean.” Carolyn turns the car to head back to the airfield. “He’s not there.”

“Well then, where is he?”

Carolyn sighs. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be calling you, would I? We’re going to have to cancel the flight. Call the tower and withdraw the flight plan. We still have two weeks to make the delivery. No reason it has to be today.”

Martin agrees. “Let me know if you find him.”

“I’m sure all of Fitton will know when I find him.” She quickly exhausts her list of Douglas’s known haunts, but can turn up neither hide nor hair of her errant first officer. Her last call is to the hospitals, where she’s thankfully unsuccessful. It seems as if he just fell off the face of the earth six weeks ago.

Finally, out of options, she calls Martin. 

“Did you find him?”

“No,” she says. “No one’s seen him in weeks. I’ve looked every place I can think of, but can’t find a trace of him.”

Martin is silent on the other end for a bit, clearly deep in thought. “You don’t think...I mean, not that I think he would, but what if...I mean he was _really_ upset when he left, and “recovering” is “recovering...”

Carolyn’s voice is firm. “If you’re suggesting he’s fallen off the wagon and into the bottle, I’d remind you that a man who’s been sober for more than a decade doesn’t throw that off lightly. Douglas is much too stubborn to fall into that trap just because he got a little roughed up.”

“It was a bit more than a little roughed up?!” Martin is indignant. “ But now that you say that... He wasn’t actually very upseat after the mugging. I mean, a normal amount for a standard-spec Douglas, but not enough to just disappear like this. Something else must have happened. He was more upset than I’ve ever seen him.”

Carolyn dismisses his concerns out of hand, but no matter how hard she tries, she cannot shake the kernel of doubt in her mind, and finds herself checking the off-licenses with mixed hopes. Part of her doesn’t want Martin to be right about Douglas. It would mean a greater danger to her friend than she had imagined. The other part of her knows that this is the true last-ditch effort to find the missing man. So, when the shop assistant at an off-license on the far side of town responds to her description of Douglas with “Big bloke? Bit of a posh accent?” she’s torn between punching him and kissing him. She manages to restrain herself to just requesting an address. He points to her towards a block of flats across the road, but doesn’t have an exact number. Undeterred, Carolyn steels herself to her task. There are only three storeys; she’ll go door-to-door if she has to. Nothing will dissuade her from finding Douglas now that she’s seen where he’s living. 

Luckily, she’s saved from hours of pounding on doors by a young girl who eyes her with interest. She recognizes the description of Douglas Carolyn provides and agrees to lead her to his flat in exchange for £18. Carolyn is secretly impressed with her bargaining skills. She’d have been able to get most adults down to £11.

The door to the flat the young girl shows her is unlocked, not that there’s anything worth taking anymore. Carolyn isn’t even sure it’s Douglas’s until she finds the man himself, passed out on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. Empty whiskey and vodka bottles litter every surface and fill two rubbish bins. There doesn’t seem to be a speck of food in the place; it’s clear Douglas has been living on liquid calories for far too long. 

Her first fear is that Douglas is dead. She checks his pulse--slow and thready--and his breathing--so shallow as to be nearly non-existent--and nearly weeps with relief. After she calls the emergency services, she rings Martin and Arthur.

As she drives her own car to the hospital, it’s hours before she sees Douglas again. Martin and Arthur arrive in that time, and three of them wait in restless anticipation, eerie echoes of another day in another town months ago. Every once in a while, one of them will start to ask a question, usually starting with “why” or “what,” but can’t seem to get past the first word. That the three of them, the people who are supposedly Douglas’s closest friends, missed something of this magnitude is beyond shocking. It’s downright shaming.

When the doctor finally emerges, it’s with an uncomfortable look on her face. She uses words like “cirrhosis” and “permanent damage” and “extraordinarily lucky.” She says Douglas will have to be admitted for several weeks, and will need to undergo counseling, but that he is lucky to have such loyal friends. Throughout it all, she calls him “Mr. Richardson,” which Carolyn and Martin appreciate as it puts a bit of distance between the man lying on the trolley and the formidable presence in their lives. Arthur thinks it’s a shame the doctor doesn’t seem to know he’s called Douglas. He believes names are important because hold a certain kind of magic. Arthur doesn’t hope for Mr. Richardson; he hopes for Douglas.

Arthur has always known Douglas is brilliant. He’s also known that of all of them, Douglas feels he’s brilliant the least. Carolyn reeks of the confidence borne of surviving a hundred trials, and Martin’s unshakeable faith in his ability to fly signals a hearty self-confidence, when his brain doesn’t kick in first to overrule it. But Douglas... Douglas only believes in his brilliance as it relates to other people, to his ability to amaze and astound them. He doesn’t believe in his brilliance just by virtue of being him, of being a unique person. It’s why he was so upset at being cut off from the approval of others. If others aren’t there to do it for him, Douglas is incapable of mustering up enough self-confidence for himself. Unfortunately, Arthur’s like the most ineffective kind of doctor--capable of seeing the problem but not of explaining or fixing it.

It’s too late at night for them to see Douglas, and they’re silent as they drive back to Carolyn’s house. She’s made the unilateral decision that Martin’s to stay with them overnight, and he finds he’s not in much condition to argue. They agree that they’ll visit the next day in shifts, with Martin going first. He’s shocked when he first sees Douglas. The older man has clearly not been treating himself well; he’s lost at least two stone and his cheeks are hollowed out. The effect is distressing, especially given the blankness to his eyes when he finally wakes up. There’s nothing of the spark of mischief he’s used to seeing in the unfathomably dark eyes. Martin is shocked by how much he misses it. 

His shift goes disastrously. He winds up tasting shoe leather more often than not, implying he’s missed Douglas because the flights are shorter, that MJN is fine without the older pilot, and that the reason he’d not checked in on Douglas was a lack of concern for his well-being. In truth, he misses the camaraderie of the longer flights with Douglas, MJN is “fine” to wait for him but the waiting is excruciating, and Martin has been so in awe of Douglas’s charisma and charm that it never occurred to him that Douglas wouldn’t weather the storm the same way he’s weathered all the others in his life: with enviable aplomb.

Carolyn’s visit doesn’t go much better. She manages to avoid the landmines Martin’s already tripped, but the inherent British-ness of their shared generation means she’s not very comfortable discussing such personal matters with anyone, even between friends as close as she realizes she and Douglas have become. They pass the time with idle talk about the weather and Arthur’s latest attempts at cooking, but nothing of any substance is said. When Carolyn leaves, it’s with a sense of stoic dissatisfaction on both sides.

Douglas manages to doze a bit, and is still asleep when Arthur arrives. The younger man takes in the yellow tinge to Douglas’s face, the heavy bags under his eyes, the way the skin of his hands feels like paper when he reaches out to touch it. Arthur doesn’t think there’s much of the Douglas they care for showing in the man lying on the bed, but he knows there’s still a bit in there somewhere. Douglas wouldn’t have survived as long as he did if there wasn’t _something_ tethering him him. And he has a sneaking suspicion he knows what it is.

Arthur tugs a bit at Douglas’s blanket, toying with the frayed hem. He starts to tell Douglas stories of the bits he missed while he was gone. But he doesn’t tell happy stories. Instead, Arthur talks about how Martin’s temper shortened and he became the same prissy pilot he was when he first got to MJN; how Carolyn spent all her time in her office, grumpier than ever before because she’d worried about Martin crashing the plane and what’s happened to Douglas (but mostly Douglas); how Gertie throws more faults now that Douglas isn’t around to soothe her; how Arthur enjoyed not being called a clot until he began to miss it. He talks until he’s hoarse and then he thinks really hard at Douglas, trying to will him to understand.

Douglas has been awake for some time now, but he doesn’t really feel up to dealing with Arthur’s particular brand of cheeriness, so he feigns sleep. He hears Arthur’s stories that turn into a confession, and the rush of emotions they bring overwhelms him for a moment. The feeling of being needed is one that he’s been missing without even knowing. Eventually, Arthur decides Douglas isn’t going to wake up and leaves him. 

Douglas spends the remainder of the day and long into a sleepless night considering what he’s just heard. He’d convinced himself that MJN wouldn’t miss him, that they’d move on and find a better first officer. Having that challenged is stunning, at best.

While it’s true that he’s failed at being a husband, he’s excelled at being a father. And while he occasionally has a lonely night, most of his days are filled with the warmth of family. There’s nowhere he’d rather be than with the crew of MJN, and losing that, even for a well-intentioned six week hiatus, had been a deeper blow than he’d imagined it would.

And then, as he lies there in bed, remembering his mistakes, his triumphs, every moment he’s faltered or failed, every time he’s been the miracle-worker, the birth of his daughter, his fall from AE’s graces, Gordon and “Dougie” and Martin and Carolyn and Arthur, Herc rebuffing him from Cal-Air and Arthur’s confident “Douglas will fix it,” he begins to realize--he’s just a person. Just a normal, everyday person with failings and feelings and people who _need_ him and _want_ him and, in spite of everything else, _love him_. And he almost threw it all away because he didn't trust them with himself.

He begins to cry. Not the great heaving of sobs with an 87-piece orchestra in the background from some Victorian novel, but real, honest tears that flow and flow and flow until he’s sure there’s not a drop of water left in his body. By the time he’s nearly finished it’s just after dawn, his head is pounding, throat dry and sticky, and Carolyn walks in. She has a piece of paper in her hand filled with sums in her precise handwriting. When she sees Douglas crying, she freezes, clearly torn between letting him have his privacy and wanting to help. Then she remembers that it was leaving him on his own that got them into this mess, and she steps boldly into the room. 

She doesn’t say a word, just sits in the chair at the side of the bed and slots her fingers between his, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand. He draws strength from the warmth of her palm and his eyes slip shut, the last of the tears squeezing out from under his lashes.

As he lies in the bed, Douglas realizes how much he’s missed the rest of MJN. He knows there’s a long, hard road ahead of him, full of pitfalls and peril, but already his load is lighter, knowing it can be shared. And that makes all the difference.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Les Mis. Special thanks to Pudu and Sproid.


End file.
